Untitled Paragraph, maybe "The Ledge"

She was sitting on a ledge, staring distantly into the non-sequential city horizon while the sun, dipping behind grey clouds and reemerging in yellow splendor, cast chilly shadows across her face, when his quiet, gradual approach distracted her gaze. Her heart did not leap so much at seeing him as it leapt for the fantasy that he might be puppyishly excited to find her here, among the throngs of human masses who dominated the ledges. She was looking at him but she wasn’t staring at him, and he was close enough to recognize her and mime a friendly wave and “hello.” She mouthed a cool response, like “hey,” or “what’s up,” and smiled wistfully as he weaved through plastic chairs and people who occupied them, some pushed dangerously close to the ledge’s metal bar balustrade and some pressed back against the stony wall of the building, and most scattered throughout the center. It just happened that there was an empty chair next to hers that, whether he wanted to or not, he had to occupy, as there were no other seats available. They were only acquaintances, made friendly by mutual interests in art, history, and philosophy, topics which could be grossly hard to come by in these modernist liberal institutions. “Hitler was very cultured in the arts,” he said, breaking the silence of the ledge, which had only previously been marred by gurgling noises from a couple on their right. “And Kevin Hearn is a poster child for the new art of blowing bubbles, but that’s hardly what makes him famous.” And no sooner had these words echoed in her brain than she realized that he, in fact, was not on that ledge in the empty seat next to her, nor did she know where he was or why this convolution of a casual-encounter fantasy fogged her mind. She couldn’t understand why she was having such thoughts of chance meetings with an attractive young acquaintance to whom she felt little attraction anyway. She knew, though, that she wanted a thoughtful, comfortable conversation with him, but would have to settle for the quiet, crowded, thought-lost ledge.

Letter to the World

Dated: Turn of a Century

World -

I just want you to know that I know I am not a testament to your greatness. I figured it out, no thanks to you. Actually, all thanks to you. If it weren't for you, I don't think I would have figured that out. Maybe I would have, but certainly not as quickly (and not in time). If you had not given me the misguidance, the obsessions, the misconceptions, and the selfish desire for more, if you had not given me those perhaps I would not be writing this letter. Perhaps I would be at the foot of some monolithic discovery of a piece to the wrong puzzle. Instead, you have left me searching for the pieces of the right puzzle, which you and I both know I will never find, let alone solve. Which is where I figured this out: because I am nothing, I will never do anything paramount to mediocrity, which still means nothing to anyone but us, the inhabitants. In the end, who are we trying to impress? Ourselves? What's the point?
Anyway, the point is because I know I am nothing, and will continue to search for the pieces I will never find, I figured out that I am not a testament to your greatness. Only that which is greatest can be -- you, yourself, and only you.
I fear I have overlooked one point. Only if we can all become one, only if we band together, united in principle and thought and action and appearance, could this be a possibility: it is only we who are one that is you. We make you. And we are the testament to your greatness. And at the end of it, when we are you, do we find that the pieces to the right puzzle were never in pieces to begin with, but intact, wholly, and only visible when we each realize that we must be one to be you.
We, who are one, am I; who I am is you.
World, I am you.

Forever,
The Youth

P.S., Fear not, world, because it is very unlikely that all of us will figure out that we must be one to be you, as few have even figured out who you are anyway. And we, like anything else, can never be you without every one of "we" understanding it in time (before we are no longer "The Youth") and very few are ever going to get it. I suspect you already knew that, though, and have only allowed the few who do understand to get it and torment ourselves with it while the rest merely squabble in the blissful ignorance of which, I must admit, I am quite jealous. So, in effect, thanks for a lifetime of cruel torchure and painful irony.

Again,
The Youth (some of us)

P.P.S., Is that why so many geniuses commit suicide? Did you do this to Ernest Hemingway? Am I mentally ill? Or is this real?

Get back to me sometime.

- Only me

an old one -- from 2004

DREAMING OF FEAR

Cross the Red Bridge to some thirty years ago,
Find yourself in Haight and Ashbury
Your dreams in a foggy mist of Merlot.
The land is prime for little towns
Invaded by Homeland Security
Invaded by unwanted pounds.

When did this dream become a nightmare?
When dusty roads grew asphalt
And grassy knolls grew telephone poles
When leaders were charged with assault.

Fry me some freedom
And serve it on a plate of gold;
Roll the blackout, you may need them
In case of noxious gas or Taliban,
Maybe a nuclear holocaust,
Maybe a fatal tan.

When did this dream become a nightmare?
When dusty roads grew asphalt
And grassy knolls grew telephone poles
When leaders were charged with assault.